Category Archives: Blogs

02.13.12
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Running

February 13, 2012

I’m an avid runner. On average I run about 5-6 times a week. I hit trails, run around Lake Merritt, or spend about an hour on the treadmill. Running is so second nature to me that it wasn’t until very recently that I began to ask myself what exactly am I running from. I mean of course I’m trying to stay in shape and speed up my metabolism a little, which at the age of 30 seems to want to stand still. But I feel like it’s deeper than that.

For example I write to express feelings that are impossible for me to verbalize and I box to blow off steam, however, my reasons for running 5-8 miles a day is something that I don’t have a complete answer to. Perhaps it’s a mixture of both. After all I do blow of a lot of steam when my feet are rhythmically pounding the pavement and I am outwardly expressing my desire to reach the finish line, but really why am I so compelled to run. I’m not training for a marathon and I’m not a slave.

Often times I’ll tell myself that I’m going to spend a whole day writing and the next thing I know I’m on some trail deep in the hills hoping local coyotes don’t smell my sweat and decide to attack me. I don’t know. It’s kind of bizarre. It’s like when I’m running with my I-pod blasting I feel like I’m floating through my own self-contrived galaxy.  It’s definitely a form of escapism; yet I wonder why I need to escape so often. Like this one story I’m working on. It’s very personal but instead of sitting down and cranking it out as soon as I look at it I put on my sweat pants and my sneakers and head out. Lately I’ve been feeling like a shot fighter who sees his opponent’s mistakes but can’t capitalize on them by letting his hands go and throwing a punch. I fear that I’ve become too guarded to be an effective writer. Instead of molding my issues into art I just want them to go away. It’s like I really want peace but I’m no longer willing to fight for it, or in my case I’m no longer willing to write for it. So I run.

When I was a boy I was led to believe that only the most cowardly of men publicly display their emotions. Now that I am a man I feel like a coward for not being able to express what makes me human.

I need to stop running.

-YB

02.08.12
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On These Sad Days

February 8, 12

                Is writing still my passion if I have to force myself to do it? With all the thoughts in my head, all the drama from work, and al the stress of my daily life you would think it would be so easy to pick up a pen and allow my soul to flow through it. I’m stuck somewhere. I’ve been running away from my writing like so many other men run away from their responsibilities. I still have ideas but lately I’ve been lacking the motivation that it takes to get them down on paper.  Waiting on a muse I guess. Just waiting on some perfect goddess to come inspire me, to save me. Typical. One would think that an education might make me different but I’m the same dude from around the way.  Substitute the campus library for the street corner and you got me. And ain’t no fanciful words gone pay these bills. I feel like I’ve come a mighty long way to still be standing in the same place. On these sad days I just want to disintegrate into dust and be blown away just to say that I’ve been somewhere else.

 

-YB

02.02.12
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Scream in Silence

February 2, 12

I don’t know why it’s so hard to let go. Why is it so hard for me to trust people? I envy newborn babies who grab the fingers of strangers when they place them inside their tiny palms. If only relationships could remain so pure. I still can’t figure out how to give a woman everything. I barely give enough before retreating back into myself. My soul cries like an infant left alone in a strange place.

 

I remember a mother once told me that her infant son cries for hours but no tears ever fall because the tear ducts take about a week to form underneath the eyelids. So the baby would basically just scream until someone got him.  Babies are wise even if they are undeveloped. I do believe men are over developed and severely out of touch with their humanity.

 

As a child my uncles would only cry when they had too much to drink. Then they would fight one another shortly thereafter to redeem themselves. Now that I am the age that they were then I rarely if ever drink. My tear ducts remain unused and I pay for that. I pay for that with my inability to let go. I pay for that with my insistence on not giving everything to her so that I can save some for myself. And then I scream in silence as loud as I can until she leaves.

-YB

02.02.12
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Grappling with the Suicide of Don Cornelius

February 2, 12

Believe it or not I try really hard not to judge people. I realize that judging another human being can be a sign of both condescension and insecurity on the part of the man who is judging. I do try to show empathy and understanding to my brethren who have gone astray and most of the time I am successful, however, when a situation like the suicide of Don Cornelius comes about it becomes very difficult for me to keep my opinions bottled up.

 

Suicide really bothers me. I am aware of mental illness as I have been affected by it on more than one occasion in my life. I know about the daily struggles to survive as well; I just have a hard time respecting a person who takes his own life. I can’t imagine what it’s like to a 75-year-old man living every day in isolation, pain, and anguish but I also can’t imagine quitting—for I am a fighter and fighting is all I know.

 

Don Cornelius did extraordinary things for black-culture and he should be applauded for that. He represents part of my childhood as he does for millions of other people around the country, which makes it seem even more pathetic to me that he would end his life in this way. Suicide has always struck me as a very selfish act. I’m sorry but that’s how I feel.

 

In the end only the judgment of god will matter. The opinion of Youngen Black probably won’t even leave The Ghettosun. I hope that Mr. Cornelius has found peace and I hope that he will be forgiven.  I just don’t get suicide, I never have.

-YB

01.30.12
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Notes on American Inner-City Education: The Worst Case of Black on Black Crime Ever Seen

January 30, 2012

Human avarice knows no bounds. People will get over any way they possibly can especially in these times of economic woe. For the most part I have come to take a natural attitude toward this reality but there is one realm of society in which greedy people always manage to piss me off.

The education of poor children is probably the biggest scam in America. So many agencies gain money from the continued failure of black and brown children that it’s disgusting. Thousands of grants are given to people who don’t care about children at all.They are unscrupulous individuals who couldn’t care less about the daily struggles of a teacher to inspire a child to read a book when that child has experienced more tragedy in 12 years than most people do in a lifetime.

Teaching is for broke people, they say. The real money is in educating teachers to teach toward standardized testing. In order to be successful one must look at children as if they are data, statistics, and ultimately dollar signs. Then and only then will you see the big bucks. Think outside of the classroom, think outside of love, and think outside of poverty.

The truth is that schools are a business that will always be profitable because people will always see education as a pathway toward success. And poor folks will almost always want better for their children. That’s why demagogues line up around the block to be the next superintendent for your nearest inner-city public school and that’s why today’s entrepreneurs are choosing education over real estate because business is booming.

Trust me when I say that non-profits are very profitable and there is much more money in making promises to raise test scores in ghetto schools than there is running a beauty salon or opening up a liquor store.

What makes the situation even more disturbing is there are a huge number of minorities who are getting rich off of poor kids of color.  A parent whose child was victimized in the recent Atlanta test scores scandal described that situation as “The worst case of black on black crime ever seen.” As a person who has worked in the field of education for my entire adult life I don’t know if I can disagree with that.

-YB

01.25.12
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A Fighter’s Insecurities

January 25, 2012

Very strange things happen in a boxing gym; peculiar things that a person who has never been inside one would have a hard time believing. Like what occurred yesterday for example. I was moving around the heavy bag feeling real good. Working on my combinations while trying to adjust to having a new trainer when this very regal looking elderly gentlemen approached me. I saw him looking at me throwing my shots and I thought wow old dude must be really impressed. So I started throwing crisper more accurate blows.

 

So the guy, who obviously used to be a fighter, says to me; “Hey man, what are you about 140 pounds?” I smile and say yeah I’m about that. Then he shook his head in disapproval and said; “You need to get down to around 135,” and walked off.

 

That old son of a bitch! How dare he call me a fat ass. I spent the whole rest of my workout disappointed for eating one too many Oreo cookies the night before. I hate Oreos by the way. Every time I eat one it goes straight to my hips. And thus the great hidden secret of the boxing world is revealed. Boxing for all its hyper-masculine images of Mike Tyson knocking people through the ropes, Hagler and Hearns trying to kill each other, and Rocky Balboa drinking raw eggs at 5:00 in the morning, is the most effeminate sport in the world.

 

Men judge other men’s bodies constantly at the gym. Patrons say things like; “Damn you hella fat. How much you weighing now?” or “Damn you looking good. Do you have a fight coming up?” Sometimes I swear I’m in a girl’s locker room or a gay bar in The Castro district….Er erm, not that I’ve ever been inside either of those places I’m just trying to make a point. When people think about individuals that have poor self-images and low self-esteem they automatically conjure up a teenage girl starving herself to try to fit into a summer bikini but let me tell you, what a grown man puts himself through to make-weight for a boxing match is way worse. Let’s use this actual dialogue from my gym as an example;

 

“Damn how much you weigh now?”

“Shit I’m down to 150.”

“150! How you lose all that weight?”

“All I been eating is baby food and protein shakes.”

“Does it work?”

“Hell yeah look at me. I only got 9 more pounds to lose and I’ll be at my fighting weight.”

 

 

It’s an extreme problem. I find it to be very telling that a man is only allowed to be insecure in an institution where he is being trained in-depth on how to render another man unconscious. I also find it to be so ironic that a place can only be so macho until it begins to turn a little suspect. Like prison for example, the only place where societies toughest men can feel free to sleep with other men and not be judged harshly for it.

No but seriously I love boxing a lot. It’s just that I have a hard time getting used to hearing muscular men with tattoos talking to one another like a couple of women trying on clothes at the local department store. Before I started learning this craft I had no idea that fighters could be so insecure. So to all the boxers around the world I just want to remind you all to love yourselves. It’s OK to gain a few pounds here and there because your real beauty is on the inside. Be proud of who you are man. Be proud of what you look like.

LOL.

YB

 

 

01.22.12
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The Agony

January 22, 2012

Wow, so now I must begin the painful process of putting my life back together after my favorite team was ousted from the playoffs. Just hours ago I was full of optimism and joy looking forward to the big game. Now all of that has been shattered by one field goal. It really pisses me off.

 

What can I say; the New York Football Giants played a great game. They marched into San Francisco and defeated my squad.  My major issue is now that the 49ers have lost I am forced to face all of the problems I have; bills piling up, my completely lame job situation, my wack ass hot water heater that has blown out yet again, high gas prices, bald tires, I’m feeling stressed out from all angles. Now I realize how much of an escape this football season has been for me.

 

My goodness loosing really sucks. I feel like I was actually out there getting sacked and fumbling punts. I’m so hurt right now. At times like this I wish I smoked weed, drank, and did ecstasy. I wish I didn’t have to face this agony. This is so dreadful and we were so close to the super bowl. I wouldn’t wish this feeling on my most hated adversary.

 

Curse you football gods! Curse you! You all don’t care about me, Alex Smith, or Patrick Willis. You all are unjust and obviously from the East Coast somewhere. New York Vs. New England for a rematch? You sick bastards! I’ll never allow myself to be led astray by you all ever again. From now on I’m going to start following more pure sports like water polo and curling. I’ll never feel let down like this again. I am no longer a believer and I will not be back.

YB

01.21.12
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Soul on the Page

January 21, 2012

Can you imagine what it must have been like for Langston Hughes to wait tables at a restaurant full of people who didn’t know that he was one of the greatest poets ever born? Can you see him humming the weary blues while he doses off on a New York City subway nearly missing his stop? I wonder if he ever seriously considered giving up. Perhaps he even  doubted whether or not the written page is the best place to put African rhythm. There were probably days when he thought about joining a band like everyone else.

Hard times for a black scribe.

I can’t picture Zora Neale Hurston cleaning up some white ladies kitchen after she wrote down some of the most outstanding stories ever told. After she perfected the craft of creating  imagery with words, after she captured black vernacular in a way that no one has either before or since, after she immortalized her little colored town. What must it have been like to be unappreciated by nearly all of her black contemporaries? How must it have felt to have to walk through the back screen door of a white families house and clean their kitchen in the hot Florida sun? Perhaps she felt like her gifts to literature had never been accepted. Perhaps she died not knowing that she was supernatural.

They say that Ralph Ellison became unraveled when a young writer dismissed him by calling him an Uncle Tom to his face. The same people said they saw Richard Wright shedding many a tear when James Baldwin proclaimed that “Native Son” was one-dimensional. But they don’t tell me whether or not they instigated. I’m sure that they did.

There must be something a little off about a person who decides to write a letter to entertain a man who is accustomed to having fantastical tales whispered into his ear. Abiyoyo and Anansi and the spider were just as rich before they were printed and published, but now the western tradition of book worshipping has been infused with soul. Open up a black book and you can see a nappy head and taste candied yams.

It’s tragic that the great prophets of the written page struggled so mightily but what they left is divine. I’m so grateful that none of them quit before their voices were read.

-YB

01.07.12
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In My Mind I Love You All

January 7, 2012

I always wonder what happens to the pretty faced girls that I see and admire but don’t have the heart to talk to. On this night I saw a woman with the right lips, the right skirt, the right complexion, and the right demeanor but I saw her at the wrong time.

It’s always the wrong time when a woman appears to be so perfect. After all I am deeply attracted to flaws. Yet I still wonder if that woman is thinking about me. Did I strike her? Was she moved? Or am I nothing to her—just another man passing by; just another potential failure? And as I sit here fantasizing about a perfect future with a woman who I have never met I realize that if I had spoken to her then I would not be writing about her now.

Mystery is an awesome muse. I would like to thank all the beautiful women I never talked to for inspiring me. And I hope that this piece lasts longer than any real life relationship that we may have had. For in my mind I love you all.

-YB

01.01.12
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The Fragile Man

January 1, 2012

I never loved her but I was smitten by her vulnerability. I became addicted to having her cling to me, overwhelm me, text me all throughout the day, and give me more attention than I could have ever anticipated. I pretended to be upset with her. I convinced myself that I could no longer put up with her insecurities. I told myself that she was too unstable and that I needed to move on, but how does a man move beyond himself without leaving this earth?

 

Doesn’t everyman want his woman to scream his name? Is there a man alive that would be morally opposed to being the center of his lady’s universe? Don’t we expect that? Isn’t it true that every obsessive text message and late night voice mail from an unloved woman can be considered the brick and mortar of a fragile man’s ego? The structure always falls down. Reciprocity is old and decrepit. We are living in the era of self-absorption.

 

I love to hate getting random text messages from that crazy woman. I love it even more when she refuses to let me go. A man doesn’t need flowers, jewelry, or compliments to make him feel special. All he really needs is a woman who won’t leave him alone so he can look down on her instead of addressing his own weaknesses.

 

-YB